


the pain of remembering

by onlyeverthus



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2511554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyeverthus/pseuds/onlyeverthus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The happy memories are the ones that hurt the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the pain of remembering

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2011 (the last Doctor/Rose fic I ever wrote x_x)

He's been following her since Charing Cross Road. He finds this a curiosity in and of itself, how all of the streets have the same names in this parallel world, but then again why shouldn't they? The city is still named London, the planet still called Earth. The biggest difference between this London and the London he knows are the zeppelins hanging in the sky and the existence of one Pete Tyler.

And her.

He doesn't know why he hasn't said anything to her yet, why he hasn't just approached her, but when he saw her he felt like he would be disturbing her and he wants to take her in with these new eyes.

She looks good, her hair longer than the last time he saw her and lying in gentle waves just past her shoulders. Tiny droplets of water cling to the blonde strands, left behind by the persistent mist hanging in the air, a remnant of the early morning rain showers that have since tapered off.

There's an umbrella down by her side, rolled up tight, the sharp metal tip clicking against the sidewalk every so often. Her overcoat swishes around her knees and he can see a bare expanse of leg between the hem and the top of her shoes.

Her dress is pink, a fact that curved his lips when he caught a glimpse of the material as she climbed the stairs from the underground and her coat flapped open around her knees.

She's dressed up with somewhere to go, nowhere to go, he doesn't know, but she hasn't yet stopped for longer than it takes to peer into a shop window before she continues on.

Maybe she knows he's following her. She's always been quite clever, more so than even he gave her credit for sometimes, and he thinks maybe now is the time to intrude.

She stops again at another shop window and he approaches her, slipping his hands in his pockets as he comes to stand beside her.

"Hope you've got a good reason for why you've been following me," she murmurs, eyes still on the window.

His lips curve into a smirk and he gives a minute shake of his head.

"Many reasons," he replies, "some of them varied and complex."

She lifts her gaze to his face, her brow knitted slightly, though her lips twitch in an amused way, and he suddenly feels as though he can't quite catch his breath.

It's been so long since he's seen her eyes, those warm brown eyes with those flecks of green. He remembers once wanting to geometrically map the locations of those flecks in her irises.

_She said he was a nutter and squealed when he tried to come after her with the scanner. He chased her down the corridors, losing the scanner somewhere along the way, and finally grabbed her around the waist, spinning her around and pressing her against the wall. She giggled breathlessly, her smile bright as she looked at him, and he raised a hand to her hair, brushing it back and staring into those eyes. He told her she was beautiful and kissed the end of her nose and_ –

Oh, but that memory hurt.

He takes a step towards her and she stands still, though her lips part just a little bit.

There are more memories trying to rise, trying to flood his mind, but he ignores them all because she's here. He doesn't need to subsist on memories when she's standing right in front of him.

His hand rises suddenly and her eyes flick to it but she still doesn't move away, and when he touches his fingers to one golden section of her hair she exhales a soft breath.

His thumb brushes against her cheek and her eyes narrow slightly, her head tilting ever so slightly as she looks at him, really _looks_ at him.

He uncurls his fingers to rest his palm on her cheek and her eyelashes flutter, and there's another soft breath when his fingers travel to her jaw, tracing the line of it until his thumb passes over her lips.

There's moisture building in her eyes, fat tears brimming along her lower lashes, and he catches the first drop when it falls.

"Doctor?" she breathes, her eyebrows knitting together. There's hope on her face, and fear, and love and nostalgia and so many other emotions, minute shifts in her expression. He picks up every one.

"New face," he says quietly, the corner of his mouth rising momentarily, "same old me."

And because he's here, and because he wants to, and because he's almost certain she wants him to, he kisses her. Softly, gently, tasting the salt from her tears and relishing the softness of her lips, exactly as he remembers.

She gasps when he pulls away and then a heartbeat later her arms are around his neck, holding him tightly with her face pressed against his shoulder. He squeezes her back, closing his eyes as he touches his lips to her hair. She smells like rain and violets.

"New face," she echoes a little breathlessly when she pulls away, staring up at him. "How many –"

"Just once since you."

"How?" she asks, her eyes roaming his face, absorbing his features. "What – what happened?"

"Tripped over a brick," he murmurs with a slight grin and she laughs softly.

It's a lie and he knows that she knows, but it's better than the truth.

"I've missed you," she says quietly.

"You as well," he replies, and she smiles.

She takes him to lunch and tells him what she's been doing.

"Vitex heiress working for Torchwood, such a scandal," she says and he laughs, too busy staring at her to actually pay attention to what he's eating.

After lunch there's more wandering about, holding hands and peering into shop windows.

They only enter one and she buys him three new bow ties, because she's positively tickled by his choice of clothing with this regeneration, fingering the red bow tie he's wearing and playfully snapping his braces just once.

He pretends to be offended, pretends that she's mortally wounded him with her teasing, but in reality everything she does delights him.

Nothing changes.

It begins to rain again sometime late afternoon and they huddle underneath her umbrella, hair dripping and mouths grinning.

She asks if he would like to see her flat and he says he would, very much.

They tumble into her bed not long after arriving, inevitably, unavoidably.

Her body feels the same under his hands, fingers tracing her curves, connecting the dots of her freckles. Everything is just as he remembers and part of him is exhilarated.

The other part of him is afraid.

He strokes and tastes, lips and tongue and fingers on her skin, raising goosebumps, making her shiver. It amazes him how much he remembers, how it all comes back to him once she's beneath him, like it's only been hours or maybe days. Not years and centuries and dimensions.

It must be so different for her. New body, unfamiliar landmarks, and he wants to let her explore, but that can come later.

They move together, her fingers pressed into his back and his arms braced on either side of her, and then she tightens around him, crying out his name. Her voice spirals around him, within him, through him, and oh how he's missed that.

She orders fish and chips from a shop down the road that delivers and answers the door in her robe, shedding it once the door is shut and climbing naked back onto the bed with him.

They talk as they eat. He tells her stories, some real, some not, and she doesn't look for the difference.

They lick the salt from each other's fingertips and kiss it from their lips, and then the trash is on the floor and he's on his back. Her fingers tiptoe over his pale skin, tapping against new freckles, combing through the sparse hair on his chest and following the line to his stomach, smiling slightly at his sudden intake of breath.

She moves up and swings her leg over his body, straddling his hips and leaning down. Her hands rest on his chest and his rise to her arms, fingers stroking her soft skin as he smiles up at her.

"Different," he murmurs.

"Not so much," she replies, and smiles broadly as she touches her lips to his.

They don't move the rest of the night, talking as they lie in bed and taking breaks to make love.

As much as he remembers, it's unbelievable that he could have forgotten just how good it feels to be inside of her, how _right_ it feels to have his body, all of his bodies, pressed against hers. They fit now just as they always have and he wonders, as he did with his previous regeneration, how this is possible.

He doesn't question it. It's not a night to question anything.

The clock hands sweep past eleven, twelve, one, and soon she's asleep, curled against his side with her arm wrapped around his torso.

There is no moon tonight but the streetlights outside illuminate the room just enough that he can make out her shadowy features and he watches her sleep.

It used to be one of his favorite things to do, to watch her eyelashes flutter as they rested on her cheeks, dark and feathery, to stare at her lips, warm and pink and parted just slightly, tiny puffs of air passing through with every slow fall of her chest.

His arm is around her shoulders and his fingers gently stroke her arm, savoring the feel of her skin under his fingertips. He shifts slightly and brings his other hand to touch her body, his fingers ghosting over the gentle swell of her breast and then down the curve of her side, over her hip to the back of her thigh. He pulls her leg up, draping it over his own and continues to the back of her knee, able to just brush the curve of her calf.

He brings his hand around to the front of her leg and travels back up, over her knee, her thigh, over her hip again to her stomach, between her breasts and over the jut of her collar bone, finally resting his fingers against her cheek.

He stares at her, and feels the fear again.

But it's not fear, really. It's resignation.

He knows what's coming for her, for him, for them and the universe, and he knows he can't stay, much as he would like to. He's not even sure how he ended up here in the first place, if he fell through a crack in time or if the TARDIS got crafty as she's prone to. He hasn't questioned it, but he knows he can't stay for very much longer.

He thinks about what's still to happen to her: The stars going out, her tireless search for him, finding him and saving the universe yet again, and that bloody beach again and the _other_ him, with his single heart and her hand in his.

He knows all too well what happens to him.

He tightens his grip on her, pulling her to him and closing his eyes as he presses his lips to her forehead, one hand rising to stroke her hair.

He misses her already.

 

 

 

The sun is just rising when he dresses in the morning, trousers and braces and bow tie and tweed. Just another costume for him to hide behind.

She's still asleep, peaceful and sweet, and his hearts ache as he looks at her.

He thinks he should wake her, should say something before he goes, and he bends, resting his hand on her arm.

Moments pass, the room grows brighter, and then he wordlessly presses a kiss to her forehead before striding from the room, from the flat, from this world where he doesn't belong.

He's always been rubbish with goodbyes.

 

 

 

The stars go out. She searches for him, finds him and saves the universe, and he leaves her on that bloody beach with the _other_ him.

He leaves them in their embrace, because there's no room for him there anymore.

He wonders if they're happy, if she could find it in herself to love the single-hearted version of him as much as she did the one with two hearts.

He wonders if the other him knows about that day, if she told him or kept to herself, locked away wherever she hides her secrets.

Maybe she told him it was a dream.

Sometimes it feels like one.

 

 

 

He has three bow ties shoved in the shadowy corner of a drawer in his bureau that he's never worn.

They were bought for him on a rainy Sunday afternoon by a yellow girl in a pink dress, who let him kiss her in front of a shop window and then took his hand like nothing had changed. She laughed when the skies opened again and stood with him under her big black umbrella, and when she invited him to her flat, he couldn't say no. She held him and loved him and –

Oh, but that memory hurt.  



End file.
